


Scars Like the Number of Stars

by rivlee



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 15:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/pseuds/rivlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New friendships form inside temple walls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars Like the Number of Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amorekay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorekay/gifts).



> Title from The Gaslight Anthem's _Wherefore Art Thou, Elvis? Kay, look, it's only been like 8 months, but I finally finished it!_

Nasir only knew the man before him from legend. Doctore, Oenomaus, both names were spoken in hushed worship. He didn’t appear a god; this broken man lying unconscious in the healing rooms. Nasir pressed a hand to his side, ghosting over his own wound, as he studied Oenomaus. How a body could survive such, he did not know. The skin he could see was covered in old wounds, raised scarred tissue, and cuts on top of cuts. Oenomaus stayed in a healing sleep, but his body told tales of a hard-fought life; a map of hurts inside and out. He was a man who had lived and suffered. The cost of such an experience was surely the source of his revered wisdom and teachings.

Nasir’s body never bore scars, save for the one on his eyebrow from an injury he couldn’t remember. His hands were just starting to form callouses form pulling ropes and training with swords when he was cut down in the forest. Now they bore the signs of what he could do; dried, cracking skin forming from all the scrubbing and sharpening of weapons. He’d lived his whole life as a slave, respected in his household and fawned over by his dominus. His former nightly routine saw him press oil and creams into his skin to erase any sign of hard labor. Now he wondered if all the rock dust would ever come off his hands and dirt clear from under his nails. In his dark moments, when Nasir forgot he was no longer Tiberius, he wondered if Agron would still find him such a man worthy of affection with scars on his face and his side. In the daylight he knew better; it was difficult to remember such in the deep of night as he slept on a cold bed roll.

He doubted Oenomaus every worried of such things; of scars or doubts of the heart. This was the man who took Agron, Spartacus, Donar, Lydon, and Crixus and formed them into gladiators. He created champions. Now he fought the pull of the Afterlife. The healer said he’d only woken once to speak with Gannicus and after his departure, she’d not seen Oenomaus speak again. 

Nasir took a bowl and cloth from one of the tables and carefully lowered himself to the stool in front of Oenomaus’ bed. He had no gift for healing, but he knew well how to clean a body. Blood, dust, and grime covered Oenomaus. It could not hurt to rid him of all traces of the road. 

He set to task without much thought, taking comfort in the familiar. It was different now; his own choice to do such for a man so loved by the leaders of the camp. Oenomaus was spoken of not only for his skill, but for his honor. Nasir held little desire to know the legend; he found the man more fascinating. To live for his ludus, to tie his own honor with a fallen house, to live apart from all he knew, to descend to the pits to regain what he once thought himself; those were not the actions of a legend. Nasir would like to know _that_ man. 

“All wish for your survival,” Nasir said. “We need your skill here. Your patience as well.” He chuckled. “Agron and Donar are not the best teachers and Spartacus has not the time.”

His voice caught as he thought of Spartacus and Agron on the road again. This time they left with Lucius and headed towards Neapolis for more men. He despaired of what would happen when the plan inevitably fell to ruin. None of Spartacus’ schemes unfolded as they should, and yet result was difficult to argue. Nasir worried of the cost.

“We need at least one leader with caution. Mira says much yet her voice is often drowned out by louder ones; Agron not least among them.” He carefully worked on a particularly stubborn patch of dried blood and sand. “I wonder if he was always thus.”

“He was worse,” a deep voice croaked. 

Nasir would’ve dropped the bowl in his hands if he didn’t have a lifetime of learning to control his reactions. He carefully placed it to the side and rose to retrieve a cup of water. He helped Oenomaus sit up before placing his hands over Oenomaus’ much larger ones, and guiding the cup to his mouth. 

He stepped back once he realized the other man’s hands no longer trembled. “The others will be glad to hear you have woken again. I shall tell Mira.”

“Stay a moment,” Oenomaus said. “We are strangers, yet you know names of those familiar to me.”

Nasir nodded. “I am called Nasir. I come from a villa freed by Spartacus and his forces. We are in a temple outside of Vesuvius.”

“Agron is of interest to you?” Oenomaus asked. 

Nasir ducked his head. He was still unused to admitting such in front of strangers. “Yes. We are together, though much of him remains unknown. I do not think it done by deliberate choice; only hurts with roots far too deep in the heart.”

“Duro,” Oenomaus said. “Much of Agron’s decisions in the ludus came through concern over Duro. He cared little for his own winnings and advancement if it did not protect the one he loved. Some would think that a weakness; what love of any kind can do to a man. Gladiators are not supposed to have friends they say. It would make us unable to kill each other if duty called for such a thing. Those who write of us do not know our lives; they do not know that our friendships are built with promises to honor each other in this life and the next. To be a gladiator is to ultimately stand alone. To advance to that final fight, you must find strength from those around you. I suspect much is the same for a rebellion.”

“We are not quite a united force,” Nasir admitted. 

Oenomaus smiled. “I would not imagine with Spartacus, Crixus, and Agron as your leaders. Each has disparaged the other at various points. There were times when Agron even cursed Spartacus’ name and belittled him.” Oenomaus rolled the cup between his hands. “I forgot my own lessons; the ones taught by my own Doctore and beloved voices now gone. I forgot not to underestimate both my friends and my opponents.” He laughed; it was a soft and angry sound. “Now I sit here confessing words to a boy.”

“I have not been a boy for many years,” Nasir said. “Innocence was claimed a year after I arrived on these shores.”

Oenomaus nodded. “I make mistake again, or rather I repeat the old ones. I should not underestimate strangers either.”

Nasir nodded in agreement. “Let me fetch one of the others. A familiar face may see you to comfort.”

“I would rather know the one before me. You are young to bare such new scars. Muscles are not yet defined in your arms and your hands are still too soft. You were not raised a warrior and I am certain you are not being trained to the best of your ability.”

“I have fought and killed thanks to lessons given by Spartacus himself. My injuries were caused because I dropped my guard.”

Oenomaus nodded. “It was not a comment meant as insult. It is good for all men to know how to handle a sword, but you are quick on your feet. I would give you the spear if time permitted.”

Nasir laughed. “Perhaps Fortuna shall bless us.”

Oenomaus shook his head. “Your man curses the gods at every opportunity.”

“He does not have to believe in them, for them to believe in him.”

“And so the youth teaches the elder.” Oenomaus moved to stand and Nasir motioned for him to sit. He poured another cup of water before resuming his seat.

“When I lived in my villa all the slaves slept in the same room. We would share our stories to chase away the ghosts in the night. I learned of all sorts of lands and types of gods on those nights. I would gladly exchange stories with you, Doctore, if permitted. My history is not much, but I can tell of what I’ve seen in the rebellion so far.”

“Oenomaus is my name,” he said. “Doctore was a title rewarded to me by schemes and lies, on a night I’d rather forget. I am Oenomaus once more and I gladly take your exchange.”


End file.
